I dipped a toe into the small wetland basin and gingerly felt for the bottom. A bag of decoys was slung over my back and my trusty broom stick dangled on a sling from my left shoulder.

Years of wading marshes, especially cattail sloughs in heavy neoprene waders, had refined my thinking about stepping cavalierly into any body of water. Wetlands are fickle; larger permanent marshes can swallow you like quicksand, so I wasn't about to revisit my past sins of spur-of-the-moment impetuousness.

The upshot: I treaded lightly. Very lightly.

I thought about that morning recently as I read an internet missive about May being American Wetlands Month, the annual observance to "celebrate one of nature's most productive ecosystems," as the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service so dryly put it.

I started writing about wetlands, particularly wetland loss, in the late 1990s in South Dakota and haven't stopped. My work, which has largely focused on a healthy wetlands/grassland base and waterfowl production, has taken me to some of waterfowling's most storied locales: the Chesapeake Bay of Maryland; the bayous and coastal marshes of southern Louisiana; the Central Valley of California; and across the prairie breeding grounds of the United States and Canada.

The overriding theme from my travels is that wetlands are widely misunderstood and often devalued for their ecological and societal importance. If water is life, wetlands help sustain that life in myriad ways. Yet, wetland losses nationally continue unabated and outpace restorations. The Trump Administration issued an executive order that would further threaten wetlands by revising or rescinding the Clean Water Rule.

"I think if we've failed in wetlands conservation it's that we haven't always spelled out their unique and indispensable values well enough and let certain myths about them persist," said Jared Motts, conservation director for the Izaak Walton League of America. The league is a nonprofit environmental group. "Unless you've spent a lot of time around wetlands, like duck hunters or birders, they're harder to appreciate than, say, the Rocky Mountains."

Indeed, wetlands have been unfairly maligned historically for being fetid swamps, incubators for mosquitoes, impediments to progress and even hubs for malaria. Misconceptions repeated often enough become fact in the public's consciousness, Motts and other conservation leaders say.

Conversely, the benefits of wetlands are numerous — and far-reaching. Wetlands, which are often described as nature's kidneys, improve water quality by filtering pollutants from agricultural and residential runoff. Wetland vegetation reduces erosion along lakes, rivers and streams by buffering wave action. Wetlands help with flood control by slowing and storing water runoff.

Some wetlands recharge groundwater supplies. A wetland holds up surface waters that would otherwise quickly flow to distant body of waters, filtering what enters the ground. Wetlands are homes to rare plants and animals, many of which are threatened or endangered species. Wetlands provide critical fish and wildlife habitat. Many fish species, for example, use wetlands to spawn, and use them for food and for protection. Wildlife such as migratory birds depend on wetlands to raise their young, to feed and to rest. Wetlands even provide economic commodities like cranberries and fish.

I see wetlands like some people see the ocean for the first time — with awe, wonder and possibility. Wetlands are places to learn about and enjoy nature. Sometimes wetlands, particularly in the fabled Prairie Pothole Region across the Dakotas and southwest Minnesota, provide epic duck hunts.

Once I worked up the nerve to step into the small basin, I found something truly astonishing: a wetland bottom as hard as concrete. Such temporary wetlands typically get bone-dry during the heat of summer. But late-summer rains had filled this one-acre-or-so wonderland with shin-high water.

I scouted the area the night before and found a prairie duck party of teal, mallards, American wigeon, gadwalls and even a few pintails. I quickly got permission to hunt for the following morning.

The morning flight started slow but picked up into a crescendo of cupped wings that would stir the darkest of souls. The wind was perfect and the sun was at my back, and every duck that came within shotgun range was backlit in Technicolor. You couldn't have choreographed a better waterfowling scenario.

I shot my ducks that fine morning, and today when I think about that rare hunt I realize wetlands — large or small, hard-bottomed or otherwise — have another indispensable value: They provide vivid memories for a lifetime.

Tori J. McCormick is a freelance outdoors writer from Prior Lake. Reach him at torimccormick33@gmail.com.